


Kiss Kiss, Pew Pew

by Hope



Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-23
Updated: 2009-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU launched from the end of Torchwood season 1. The TARDIS never ended up at the end of the universe, but the Doctor's penchant for leaving Jack behind is still going strong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss Kiss, Pew Pew

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this was written months before CoE aired. Much is owed to the patience of my beta, amand_r, and consultants cupidsbow and zortified.

Making a career of time travel had left Jack with an unfortunate sense of entitlement when it came to the concept of 'fate'. While whatever existentialism he might have harboured at some point had been unavoidably muddied by the fact of his immortality, he'd still never felt the compulsion to ascribe circumstance to some higher power.

Mainly because it had turned out that the Time Agency (and later on, the Doctor) _was_ that higher power. Why submit to the whims of fate when, broadly speaking, a vortex manipulator or TARDIS was readily available to guide it?

Of course, the demonstration of that is entirely reliant upon having access to a vortex manipulator that actually _works_. Otherwise you're left waiting for a TARDIS to turn up.

_Centuries_ of waiting, even, of being _ready_; and new face or not, the Doctor hadn't pulled any _just one trip_ lines out of his bag of tricks when he'd discovered Jack clinging, barnacle-like, to the hull of his ship. Turns out, though, that being on board a TARDIS is no guarantee that one's fate is mastered-- Or perhaps it is, and Jack will just never know it.

Because the problem with the TARDIS, of course, is that it can leave you behind as easily as it can take you away.

Jack grimaces, half at the thought and half at the mouthful of the bitter, potent local brew he swallows down. Fate's a cad. A clever, ironic bastard who loves to rub Jack's face in it; leaving him with a vortex manipulator still useless for time travel, but functional enough to give him sufficient local credit to drink himself into a maudlin slump of self-pity.

He slugs down the last few inches of his drink, banging the cup on the bar a couple of times as he wipes his chin with his coat sleeve. The bartender gives him a disgruntled look before refilling the cup without a word. It's not like Jack can do much _damage_ by wearing down bar stools; the Doctor had warned he and Martha before they arrived that during this era, the quadrant they were visiting was yet to develop deep space travel. It would be risky enough just landing at this fragile stage of its development, let alone _interfering_ with anything.

Though, knowing the Doctor, Jack figures _interference_ is exactly what happened. Though that excuse for the speedy exit still doesn't explain why the Doctor thought it was okay to just leave Jack, the walking, talking anomaly, in this "delicate environment of technological development".

Unless Jack's meant to be here. And that's why the Doctor left. Left him.

He drinks until his cup is more than half-empty again, the slam of distaste leaving his tongue pushing around his mouth and jaw hanging open, as if he can force the flavour out again.

Well, screw that anyway. Jack Harkness is not fate's puppet, never has been, and if that's all part of the Dr I-can-see-all-of-time-and-space's _plans_, then Jack just doesn't care any more. Memories of waiting in the Gamestation, the fallen rotting around him, hard on his heels; he'd hitched a ride on the first craft out of the backwater settlement. Which had taken him to another, slightly more equipped, backwater settlement. Which had, in turn, taken him to another. Creatively named Federation Settlement #954, as a matter of fact.

Which leaves Jack the familiar practice of drinking himself to oblivion--so much for doing it over, doing it _right_ this time--waiting for the civilisation he's stuck amongst to invent their own form of deep space travel and make contact with the nearest space station. Conveniently, it's one that's overseen by humanity in its 48th century, an era (and locale) Jack knows the Doctor has a fondness for visiting.

And then Jack's going to punch the Doctor in his stupid, pretty face. Jack had liked the old one far better, anyway.

He figures he's only got a few centuries to wait until then. And the last five years have just _flown_ by, so he should have no problem waiting it out, especially as the settlement he's in now--dust-bucket, lice-ridden, backwards pit of hicks that it is--is set to grow exponentially as the requisite technological developments approach, giving Jack more room to move around and escape notice. He can manage a few centuries, no problem. Just so long as after Jack punches him in the face, the Doctor's still willing to take Jack back to Cardiff and the 21st century. Around February 2007, to be more precise.

Time machine or not, inevitably the turn of Jack's thoughts in this direction leaves him unsettled and antsy, impatient. The urge is irrational, but still, he can't help but _will_ the bloody hacks in charge of interstellar transport development in this joke of a 'federation' to get the bloody hell on with it.

"Care to repeat that?" growls the pug-faced guy looming against the bar next to him. Well, he's not _literally_ pug-faced. The species Jack's ended up amongst is humanoid enough that he can't tell the difference unless looking very, very closely at them. While they're naked. Which Jack's had miserable little opportunity to do.

Pug-face grabs Jack by the lapels of his jacket. That's the problem with the local brew; tends to turn inner monologue into outer. Still, if he's honest with himself, Jack's been spoiling for a fight. And he's not so drunk that his right hook to the Pug-face's jaw is telegraphed, but it's still not powerful enough to loosen the guy's grip; they tumble to the sandy, stinky floor and start pounding at each other immediately, both struggling to gain the upper hand in a flail of aggression. Jack's laughing, though, making the guy below him snarl; blood in Jack's mouth making his teeth slippery, the taste almost palatable in comparison to what he's been drinking. He's drunk enough, even through the adrenaline rush of the fight, to be distracted by it, and Pug-face sinks a vicious fist into Jack's belly, driving the breath out of him.

Which is right about when the local law enforcement enter the scene. And don't seem impressed with Jack's suggestion that maybe they'd get the fuck on with their technological advancements a lot faster if the federation weren't so fixated on shutting down the natural expressions of aggression in its citizens.

By the time Jack's feeling sober enough to drag himself off the floor of the cell, the violent burst of self-pity's been forced back down again beneath a lid of almost amused resignation. The cell might just be the least dusty place Jack's slept since he arrived on Federation Settlement #954 thirteen months ago. There's an outlet hanging over a rusted drain, Jack tastes the water experimentally before cupping a handful against the back of his neck.

A muttered insult makes him look up and over; through the bars in the cell opposite, Pug-face scowls threateningly back at him. Jack offers a winsome smile in return, which results in a further torrent of low-volume disparagement, and Jack sits with his back against the wall, sprawling comfortably. His visible serenity is apparently a severe irritant to his fellow brawler, so Jack rests his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, keeping a beatific smile upon his face.

It's impossible to sleep in such a place, even if sleep were something that came easy to him. Jack finds he's slipped into some kind of meditative headspace regardless, when a heavy clang of metal startles him back to awareness. Not unlike the clang of a holding cell in Victorian Cardiff, despite the disparate technologies. If Jack's learned one thing about space-and-time travel, it's that holding cells across the universe differ very little from each other.

He rises to his feet as the last of the magnetic locks disengage, the expression of the jailer bland as she looks Jack over. Jack straightens his jacket, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to straighten his spine again; sitting on the hard floor hasn't done him any favours. It buys him time to try and process just what's going on because it's not time to leave yet; Pug-face is still in his cell, stirring and rising to watch the proceedings himself. Usually minor infringements carry a sentence not shorter than thirty planetary hours; Jack hadn't expected to be released with his requisite fine until all three of the planet's suns were in the sky. Which, judging by the hazy gold tone of the light coming in through the plexi-roof, it's certainly not.

"Move it," the jailer says, losing patience; she jerks her thumb in the direction of the exit. "Don't want to keep your bailer waiting."

Jack smirks, sparing a moment to glance triumphantly one last time in Pug-face's direction, and walks past her with a saunter; his mind an abrupt turmoil of curiosity and apprehension. He crushes down the faint whisper of hope, but not enough to avoid the stab of disappointment when he's shoved through the door and gets the first glimpse of his saviour--battered leather trousers and jacket shaping what's clearly a female figure, no camel trenchcoat or sneakers in sight.

Then she turns around, and Jack's staring open-mouthed into the somewhat grumpy face of Gwen Cooper.

The shock is enough to literally stop him in his tracks; he stumbles forward as the jailer shoves him from behind and finds himself unable to stop the momentum, practically falling into Gwen's embrace as her arms unfold to catch him. The strength of his grip is returned as Jack locks his arms around her torso, and the urge is to lift her up but he suddenly feels too weak for it. The sight of her here, of all places, sends a shock of panic through him, peppering the already-increased pound of his heart with a more frantic rhythm.

Gwen's fingers dig tight into his shoulder blades and the skin of Gwen's neck smells clean and hot and _human_. Gwen pulls back at last, though Jack grabs at her hand before she can withdraw entirely.

"Free to go?" Gwen asks the officer at the desk in stilted, accented Federation Standard. The officer gestures toward the retinal scanner and Jack obediently rests his chin on the stand long enough for the brief blue light to flash through his vision. Then Gwen's leading him out into the sunshine.

In the unobstructed light of two suns near high noon, Jack can't take his eyes off her. She's not wearing leather--the keeping of livestock for human consumption had been long since phased out when the fibre she's clothed in was made. It's a good mimic for the wear and resilience of leather, though, and it blends in with the dusty brown and rusted metal of the settlement. Her hair's shorter, loose strands brushed off her face and the rest of it bound in a tight, high ponytail that isn't so out of place, here. Long enough that she could be a merchant, not long enough to claim the rare and deliberate conspicuousness of an aristocrat.

She returns Jack's scrutiny with equal intensity, though her face maintains the expression of mild disgruntlement, albeit layered with amusement and what appears to be genuine smugness. The lines of her face look different than Jack remembers. She looks older. Like it's been some time since Jack's seen her last. Maybe even as long as it's been for Jack.

"How did you find me?" It comes out as a croak.

Her expression becomes less of a squint and more of a smirk. "Ran a search on the planet's civic records; your retinal scan flagged you as being incarcerated here for a minor infringement. Can't keep out of trouble, can you?"

Which causes the number of questions on the tip of Jack's tongue to increase rather than decrease. Before he can ask another, Gwen frees her hand from his grasp, reaching up to tap at her ear. "Tosh? You were right. I've got him."

Jack's heart leaps at the name; he's not sure just how much more of this it can take. Gwen's face breaks into a wide, familiar grin, listening to the other side of the conversation that Jack's not privy to before laughing, then tapping her ear once more. She beams at him for a moment, hands on hips. "Come on, then, follow me."

She seems perfectly at home in the dry, barren streets of the settlement, and he walks half a pace behind her so he can keep his eyes on her at all times, not entirely sure she's not about to vanish again just as abruptly. They head unerringly in the direction of the settlement's infant space port, barely more than an arena of scorched sand below a haze of fuel fumes. Someone steps out of the shadows and takes a few paces towards them as they approach the undecorated--and otherwise unattended--entry gates; Jack's breath catches in his throat.

Owen's scowl warns Jack off coming any closer; Jack's body teeters nearly on tiptoes with the urge to leap, rising wildly in his throat. Owen exchanges a nod with Gwen before falling into step with them, just out of Jack's reach, and they step through the brief band of shade that marks the entrance to the port.

Jack hasn't been here since he landed but he still remembers the workings of it, though he's not entirely sure he can trust those memories here; he's not entirely sure this isn't just another effect of the booze, inventing fantasies for him with disappointingly little nudity. Only a handful of the docking bays are occupied, and he finds himself peering into the empty ones as they pass, half-expecting to see the incongruous blue corners of the TARDIS at any moment. Surely _that_ could be the only way this is real.

The TARDIS doesn't appear, though. Owen and Gwen come to a halt at the arse-end of a ship that looks as if it's clearly seen better days, _THE MERMAID_ lasered into its hull.

Gwen taps her ear again. "Tosh? Could you open her up, please?" she says, and within a moment, _The Mermaid_'s hold door is groaning ominously as it lowers.

Owen waits until they're all three safe in the dim depths of the cargo bay before socking Jack square in the jaw. He pulls it, much to his credit, but Jack only barely registers the move from the corner of his eye before it happens, too distracted by the surroundings--and all their presence within infers--to dodge in time.

Jack staggers back under the blow but at least manages to remain standing as a surge of adrenaline makes his body suddenly limp and shaky before it snaps back to eager attention and he straightens.

Owen doesn't even look pissed off, though, shaking his hand out and saying drily, "Sorry for not doing that earlier. Didn't want to land us both back in the brink, we only had enough credits to bail you out the once."

Jack grabs him and Owen doesn't evade this time. He shakes Owen a little, the thrill of his fight response still rushing through him, and when he hauls Owen closer, Owen clutches right back, pounding with a little too much strength, making Jack's breath huff out into Owen's hair. "You mean bastard," Jack says breathlessly.

"You deserved it." It doesn't last very long before Owen pulls back again.

Gwen's smirking. "Feel better, now?" she asks him.

Owen grins at her. "Of course. Told you I'd do it, didn't I?"

She shakes her head in amusement, but Jack stops paying attention; aware of their smug scrutiny but unable to combat it right now, his attention drawn more properly to his surrounds.

_The Mermaid_'s an Exmachina D12. He'd seen the hints of it from the shape of the hull; now, here under her skirts, he can see the construction of her crinoline, and how the stairs to the living quarters hump over the metallic bulge of her jump drive; it all slots together. She belongs in this quadrant even less than Jack does, but Jack's not even sure anyone else could even recognise her on the _inside_, let alone the outer; the jump drive has industrial measure wire pipes coming out of it, connecting to massive power cells that huddle in the far corner. It's not the first time he's seen their like; not even the first time in context with these people, more's the point.

Gwen continues to watch, seeming increasingly--and unabashedly--pleased with herself, and Owen moves to a control panel with a screen interface that looks decidedly like a 21st century touch screen. The lights in the cargo bay brighten a little, illuminating even more familiar parts. Last seen filed away in cardboard boxes--some even in plexi-glass containment units--deep beneath Cardiff. Owen turns back to face him, lounging back against the stair railing and crossing his arms across his chest.

Jack opens his mouth, but before he can speak there's the hiss of a disengaged door from above and clattering footsteps along the metal gangway, then he's staggering as Toshiko launches herself at him from halfway down the stairs, momentum of the impact driving him back the same way Owen's punch had.

Tosh's embrace is as strong as Owen's as well, and she's tiny enough to fit right in Jack's arms with her arms and legs wrapped around him, bands of wiry strength like a fierce little jockey. The memory of her softer and more hesitant in his embrace is enough to make Jack's breath solid in his throat for a long moment. With the three of them here and the anachronistic trappings of the Hub scattered around them, Jack feels abruptly fraught with intense emotion. It's like his expectations for the future--their reunion, in all the forms he's envisaged it--are a taut stretch of elastic that someone's severed; he's still reeling from the violent snap-back.

Tosh draws back enough to slide down his body and plant her feet on the ground, hands gripping on either side of his torso and shaking him a little; the tension loosens a little in his chest he can't help but laugh as she does, and happily return the loud _smack_ of a kiss she plants on him.

Tosh squeezes his hands with enough strength to make his knuckles crack. "Owen and Gwen introduced you, then?" Tosh asks, and when she glances up and around them fondly Jack realises that she's talking about the ship. She continues before he has a chance to answer. "Come through to the bridge, I've got so much to show you."

He lets her drag him up the stairs, ducking as he climbs over the lower ledge of the connecting door. She doesn't give him time to pause as they move through the short, pokey hallway, and he looks around him at the metal girders that support the ship's structure, naked on the walls on either side. Then Tosh is leading him through another doorway, and onto the bridge.

Empty jumpseats fill the central space, and a comparatively small viewing window shows a hazy view of the settlement outside through a filter of planetside grit. Between them, though, consoles covered with controls and displays form a quilt of technology; Tosh goes immediately to what's clearly the pilot's seat and starts fiddling with displays. It's a right-hand drive, of course.

Jack follows her, and looking over her shoulder sees a familiar formless blue shape writhing in the depths of the monitor's display. "Is that _Mainframe?_"

Tosh grins up at him. "Yup," she says proudly, and Jack shakes his head in disbelief, wandering from her side to examine more closely the controls that stretch up to the low-hanging panels above the pilot and co-pilot's seats.

Behind him, Tosh flicks some switches and the ship begins a low, subterranean rumble beneath them. "That's is one of my favourite mods," she says as Jack examines what looks like a sonar screen from a 20th century military submarine. "Turn that dial five clicks to the left, will you? It sends out low-level waves of sonic resistance to the port authority's radar; they _think_ they're logging us as we come and go, but in actuality the data they're getting from us is bogus, completely jumbled."

Jack twists the dial five clicks to the left. He's still not entirely sure that any of this is _real_, but is starting to get a sinking feeling that it must be, because Ianto's not here.

The ship reverberates with a bone-deep _thud_ as the cargo door closes, and Tosh concentrates on her controls while chatting into her earpiece, confirming they're ready to go before signing off on her comms. More switches are flicked and commands typed into keypads; Tosh turns around to speak to him again and stops, mouth closing in a grin.

She's not even looking at Jack, but right past him, and before he can turn around Tosh holds out her hands. Jack's a little perplexed at just what she's doing before she catches something that flies from behind him. She holds it up to her scrutiny before giving an exaggerated groan of disappointment.

Jack turns around. Ianto meets his gaze briefly; giving Jack a very familiar "see what I have to put up with?" glance. He's grinning as well; he and Tosh sharing the same self-satisfied look of glee that Owen and Gwen had worn back in the cargo bay.

"Beggars can't be choosers, Tosh," Ianto says unsympathetically. "Though beggars can probably choose _not_ to let Owen concoct some sort of hideous space porridge with their rations."

He's wearing some sort of uniform--different from the well-worn travel garb Owen and Gwen had sported, and the slightly more indoors version that Tosh is wearing. Even though the uniform is looking a little battered itself, Jack's been planetside for long enough to know that Ianto would have stuck out amongst the locals like the proverbial sore thumb.

A very comely sore thumb, though. Even though the colour's dimmed by the dust and it looks like it's only been pressed rather half-heartedly, the high cut of the collar makes Ianto's neck enticing, straight lines of the waist and trousers giving Jack the somewhat delightful urge to stand to attention.

Ianto takes in the gaping good-naturedly and then takes pity on him, shrugging in answer to Jack's unasked question. "All outposts in this precinct are required by federal law to accede to any officer's requests for staple rations."

"But--"

"Explanations need to come later, Jack," Tosh says. "Ianto?"

Ianto steps closer to Jack, still smiling somewhat beguilingly, and the familiarity of Ianto _herding_ him about with a sly expression and confident movement is so familiar that Jack grabs him instead of moving backward. Ianto doesn't pause a whit, arms wrapping just as tight around Jack's shoulders, his hand on the back of Jack's neck, jaw scraping the side of Jack's. They pull back far enough to look each other in the eye, then far enough for Jack's eyes to flit down to Ianto's mouth.

Ianto's still smiling. "Tosh is right," he murmurs, though then swipes his tongue quickly over his lower lip. "Later."

Apparently oblivious to the way that Jack's world has abruptly contracted, Ianto releases the hold of his arms then presses his hands down on Jack's shoulders; suddenly Jack finds himself sitting in one of the jumpseats.

Ianto lifts an eyebrow in an expression that seems out of place on the bridge of a space ship, an _I'm not finished with you yet, but not right now,_ that was once a daily fixture in Jack's life, tossed over Ianto's shoulder as he exited Jack's office. Ianto turns away this time as well, sitting alongside Tosh--in the co-pilot's seat, no less--and strapping himself in absent-mindedly as he immediately starts making adjustments on the bank of controls in front of him.

"Seatbelt on, Jack." He turns to see Gwen sitting in the seat beside him, and in the next seat, Owen, both of them pulling the red nylon restraining straps over their chests.

"Yeah," Owen says. "Even if you can come back to life, the last thing we need is your dead weight rattling around up here while we're stabilising."

Even Owen's faulty--and occasionally vicious--sense of humour sparks a surge of welcome familiarity that Jack feels is mild cause for celebration. At least until the vague comfort of it is washed away in mild alarm when everyone _laughs_. Well, near enough anyway; Gwen grinning and shaking her head, Tosh chuckling briefly and even Ianto--Ianto! at Owen!--giving a snort of amusement.

Jack opens his mouth to retaliate the perceived slight even as he's fumbling for the clasp of his own straps, but then the ship starts to shake, rumbling below increasing to a roar and filling in the quiet spaces around their banter. Dust stirs up more violently outside the viewing window, masking their view of the outside world entirely with a sandy brown haze.

"Ianto, engage gravitational dampeners, please," Tosh calls in a clear voice, hands flying over the controls.

"Aye," Ianto returns shortly, his own touch on the panels slower but just as methodical.

_The Mermaid_ jerks violently--like a lift dropping a few floors unexpectedly, only up instead of down--and Jack's shout of alarm is lost in the thunderous shake all around them. He sees the point of the seatbelts, now, and even as he's clinging onto the arm rests for dear life and feeling his teeth rattle around in his head, the part of his brain that stores all the engineering knowledge he's pulled together over the centuries informs him that all the ship needs is a sub-tropospheric suspension coil to absorb the shock from the thrusters and she'll be riding as smoothly as a New Melbourne tram.

His innards shake about just as much as the rest of him if not _more_, roiling and twisting on themselves, and for a long moment Jack clenches his jaw tightly against the urge to vomit. What the hell are they _doing?_ Abducting him in their intergalactic equivalent of a go-kart, strapping him into the back seat like a toddler on their way home from the shopping mall. They're so far out of their depth that Jack's almost embarrassed for them. Or he would be, if he weren't abruptly so infuriated. Not least of all because apparently they're taking off not only without a by-your-leave, but with naught but the clothes on Jack's back. Well, he's wearing his wrist strap, of course, but his coat is still tucked away in its airtight packaging beneath the sleeping palette in the room he's been renting. His _coat._

The last of the confounding dust haze is whipped away as they're propelled out of the planet's atmosphere, the bridge's viewing window instead filled with the blinding white of the two suns before _The Mermaid_ wheels gracefully, presenting them instead with the saucy curve of the planet below, nestled against the star-pricked black.

"Stabilising," Ianto says, no longer shouting as the sound lowers from a roar to a rumble, watching one of the screens with great concentration.

"More gravy for me please, Tosh," Owen calls good-naturedly.

Tosh flicks a quick smile over her shoulder. "All right, then." She reaches up to flip a few tab-like switches from the down to the up position, then taps her touch screen twice. "Internal grav conditions enabled."

The need for Jack's seatbelt abruptly ceases, though his heart still punches violently against the restraint of his chest even as he hears Gwen and Owen release the clasps of their straps.

"This is all very cosy," Jack grates before anyone can leave their seats again. "But someone needs to tell me right now what the hell you lot think you're doing."

It's said in a tone he's not used in years but he _knows_ will get answers; mainly because it establishes with no room for argument that it's his _right_ to have them. Whether used on soldiers, servants or subordinates, it's never been responded to with anything except obedience.

Tosh looks back over her shoulder at Gwen, then to Owen. Then she turns back to her control panel. The movement of the ship continues to gentle as _The Mermaid_ slips out of orbit with rapid speed, leaving Federation Settlement #954 to spin obliviously in her wake.

Jack unclasps his own straps, flinging them off his shoulders. His hands return to grip the arm rests with the fierce desire to give everyone a good shake until the answers fall out.

"Aside from the potentially _catastrophic_ repercussions of 21st century humans even _engaging_ in deep space travel--" and, all right, he's exaggerating a little, but they're not even _looking_ at him and it's not because they're ashamed-- "Under whose authority did you remove and repurpose artefacts held strictly in Torchwood custody?"

At least Gwen's looking at him, now; Tosh is still turned away and fiddling with knobs and dials. Ianto casts a look over his shoulder, the opposite side to Jack, and Jack sees Owen look forward to meet it briefly before shaking his head and standing up.

"Don't be such a prat, Jack," Owen bites, then turns and steps over the lip of the door and out of the bridge.

Ianto's eased out of his seat as well before Jack can respond. "I need to check that the cargo's still secured," he says, tone bland, and straightens both his and Owen's seat belts before walking out of the bridge himself, without a second glance.

Gwen's still looking at Jack. If he were a weaker man, the sharpness of her stare would have him cringing.

"Under my authority," Gwen says, tone steely, though entirely without venom. "After I assumed command, when you'd been gone without a trace for nine weeks."

She stands as well, pausing only to give him a light smack on the head as she exits the bridge.

"Jack," Tosh calls from ahead. "I could use your hands here for a moment, if you please."

Jack finds he's shaking as he stands up, residual adrenaline from their rocky take-off as well as lingering shock at just how he got here. The kindness in Tosh's tone cows him a little, though he refuses to feel guilty for demanding answers. They're _his team_, after all, which means they still owe him that much at _least_, no matter how upstarted they've got out here. In _space_, for god's sake.

"Sit down," Tosh directs him to the recently-vacated co-pilot seat with a brief point of her chin. "Watch that screen. Tell me if readings move into the yellow. Above about forty percent. We'd like them in the green."

He sits, stares at the screen. The readings are of a kind he can't immediately interpret, a convolution of data represented through a 21st century operating system. Earmarks of Toshiko are all through it, though. Jack realises Tosh has stopped moving about, and when he looks over she's stopped to look at him. When he returns her gaze she gives him a brief sympathetic smile before turning back to her console.

"The engine temperature fluctuates during take off and landing, it was cheaper to keep the climate modulators to the areas we occupy. This old bird can take the heat, anyway." There's a genuine fondness in her tone that Jack is more than familiar with--that of a skipper for her craft. "We can't refuel the jump drive until it's dropped to the green, though, so let me know when it gets lower than twenty per cent?"

Jack nods wordlessly.

"Ianto found it in the secure archives. The drive, that is. It took us a couple of a months before we could figure out how to safely integrate it with the engine--that came down in the Beacons a few weeks after you disappeared; Gwen got hold of a lorry for us to bring it back to the Hub. Owen was the only one who'd met Archie before, so he went up to Glasgow to requisition the hull from Two's warehouses, forms all complete with your signature, of course. After that the next thing was finding a way to fuel it all... Tap the fuel icon to bring up the diagnostics, will you?"

The familiar cadence of Tosh's voice, explaining her genius very matter-of-factly, settles some of the churning in Jack's gut as he follows the tale through the instructions she provides him with. The panic's being replaced by something akin to awe, though it's still spiked into the occasional urge to break something when Tosh casually drops bombs like, "We swapped some 30th century atomic batteries for the hydraulics system you saw in the cargo bay on Delta 54Z9," because _he's_ no babe in the woods of galactic travel; he's amazed--and fervently grateful--that any (not to mention _all_) of them are still here.

"We'll be ready to jump out of this quadrant, soon," Tosh says at length. "We're out of range enough that any deep space activity should be off the Federation's radars." She leans back at last, pushing her hands up above her head until her shoulders crack.

"Tosh," Jack says, overwhelmed. "How long...?"

"By Earth's calendar?" She squints a little, calculating. "Nearly six years, I'd say."

Jack nods, unsure of how else to respond and unable to meet her eye, gaze instead flitting over the jumpseats again and again, counting compulsively. There are five of them.

"Usually I'd go help Ianto and Gwen install the fuel cells right about now, in preparation to jump."

Jack nods again, then stands up. "Thank you," he croaks.

Tosh smiles. "No need, we've all got to pull our weight around here."

It's not what he was offering thanks for, but a new surge of gratitude comes at her gentle brush off.

The cargo bay is different now they're aloft, engine giving off a comforting throb of light and heat that's far from the acridity of the planet they've just left. Ianto's loitering around the crates held against the wall by cargo netting, idly kicking their corners back into line with his booted foot. Jack pauses at the top of the stairs, Ianto's body language indicating _busywork_ rather than the focus of a job that needs to be done.

The tableau Jack finds himself in gives him pause for a long, breathless moment. Five years has been long enough to construct and hone his fantasies of this scenario, or thereabouts. With a TARDIS and apologetic Doctor at Jack's disposal, he'd be able get back to Cardiff mere hours after he left; return home to the Hub, descend into her cool depths, find Ianto in the Archives. Busywork was always a good indication he was waiting for Jack, would welcome an encounter--more than welcome, really. Jack suspects he's been _conditioned_ himself, so much so that even with the wildly different setting, the sight of Ianto idly occupying himself while clearly letting his thoughts wander is practically making Jack's mouth water.

Ianto looks up as Jack walks down the stairs. "Well?" he asks. His mouth twitches, as if in amusement, and Jack doesn't miss the quick drag of Ianto's eyes over his body.

"Six years?" Jack says before he can stop himself; apparently that's not actually long enough for him to forget the habitual comfort of treating his personal assistant not unlike a confidante. Former personal assistant, he supposes. That thought is a bit more thrilling than he expected, Jack has to admit.

When he gets close enough Ianto reaches out, brushing dust off the shoulder of Jack's battered jacket. "Yup."

Jack explores the collar of Ianto's uniform with his fingers, returning the touch complete with its thin façade of professionalism. "Took you long enough."

Ianto raises an eyebrow; Jack suspects he'll never be able to be cheeky enough to cause Ianto affront. "Funny, sir--" the honorific has entirely new and quite stimulating connotations when Ianto says it while in uniform, apparently-- "I was about to say the same thing to you."

For the first time in days--months, _years_, even--Jack finds himself grinning, fit to burst.

"All right, lads?" Gwen calls, boots echoing against the metal stairs as she skips down them. "Just about ready to go, are we?"

Jack is.

*

And then they have adventures. In space.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hope.dreamwidth.org/1528115.html


End file.
